


Looking Back Upon the Race I've Run

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Not Waving but Drowning [31]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221b, Domestic, Friendship, Gen, Getting to know, Honesty, Kinship, Opening Up, Talking, Truth, Victor Trevor - Freeform, chatting, open - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 11:26:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7843075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glitch with Sherlock’s new medication opens up a tiny channel of communication about his past that John soon turns into a much deeper riverbed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking Back Upon the Race I've Run

John pushed into the kitchen with his arms weighed down with shopping bags, but he was secretly thankful that Mrs Hudson had offered to carry one of the lighter carrier bags up the stairs for him - it was at least some kind of a weight reduction on his aching wrists. He dumped the bags onto the already cluttered table, and smiled in thanks as Mrs Hudson handed over the carrier containing two loaves of bread and a four-pint bottle of milk. 

“Thanks,” He said, dropping the bag beside the others. “As much as I appreciate him handing over the money for the groceries, I’d appreciate it even more if he got the shopping himself once in awhile.” 

Mrs Hudson smiled and touched John’s arm affectionately, “That’ll never happen, Dear.” 

John laughed lightly, “A guy can dream, can’t he?” He smiled at her, his nose wrinkling. “Do you want a cup of tea?” 

“Oh, no thank you, Dear. I’ve got a dinner date.” Mrs Hudson smiled brightly at him. “He’s taking me to that new Turkish place. I’ve never had Turkish food before,” she mused. “I hope it’s not all lamb spiced with eyeballs…” 

John let out a loud laugh. “Lamb maybe, eyeballs I’m sure you’re safe from.” He shook his head at her. “Is he still in?” he gestured toward the lounge. 

“I didn’t hear him go out,” Mrs Hudson nodded her head. “I did hear him speaking on the phone a little while ago, though, to his brother I think. He kept shouting so it must have been. That brother of his is a monster when he wants to be, you know.” She tutted and shook her head. 

“He’s not so terrible.” John removed his coat and hung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “Suppose he’s just used to having to be that bit stricter with him. I’d be the same if Harry and I were closer, I think.” 

“Heroin is a far cry from alcohol, though.” Mrs Hudson remarked, taking her leave down the stairs without a goodbye. 

John frowned into the empty space Mrs Hudson left, not sure that he’d have had any reason or lack of respect to snap at her for her remark anyway, and simply shook his head in her absence. He walked through to the lounge, glancing around briefly, well aware Sherlock had the presence of mind to sit silently just to be silent, but found the room empty. He turned back toward the kitchen and slipped out of the door, down the narrow hallway to Sherlock’s room. He knocked twice on the door before letting himself in. 

“Oh, so you are here.” He mumbled. “You okay?” 

Sherlock looked up at John and drew the phone away from his face, cutting the call as he did so. “Fine.” 

John drew down the corners of his mouth. “I got the shopping.” He said, thumbing behind him. “Want to help me pack it away and chose something for dinner?” 

“Not particularly,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. Immediately, his face turned to a wince of annoyance as his right shoulder jerked down, so sharply John feared Sherlock might have toppled backward onto the mattress. 

John smirked. “Just had a nap?” 

“No,” Sherlock shook his head and looked up at him again, concern - or something close - flashing through his wide eyes. “But they’ve been getting worse since yesterday evening.” 

Two things about Sherlock at that moment alarmed John. The first was that he actually looked a little concerned for himself, a little bewildered, and the second was that he had actually opened up. There was no shrugging it off, no passing it off as usual for him, no resigned shrug of ‘this is just what I put up with’. He looked, for all the world, like he might be a little afraid. 

“You’ve been taking the medication?” John checked, leaning in the door jamb. 

Sherlock nodded, “All of it.” 

“Did the Epilim help before?” John asked, “You said you had it before.” 

Sherlock nodded again, screwing up his face as his shoulder jerked down and travelled across in a Mexican wave effect, making his left side jerk down a second or two later. “...yeah,” he moaned. “Maybe it’s the Dilantin?” 

“Dilantin?” John made a face. “They wouldn’t give you Dilantin, drugs like that only really find benefit for tonic-clonic seizures, and I know for a fact I’d never prescribe that for someone with myoclonic epilepsy.” He shook his head firmly, “You’re sure you don’t mean something else, Diamox maybe?” 

Sherlock shook his head and stood, rolling his shoulders back, and clenched his right hand in and out. “No. It’s definitely Dilantin. I’d never heard of it before, I looked up the generic name. It’s, um...Phenytoin.” He went to his nightstand and drew out the two boxes of medication, one reading ‘Epilim’ in thick text, the other stating ‘Dilantin’, and handed them to John. 

“Mate, you can’t be taking these. Frankly, I’m surprised it’s taken this amount of time to start reacting. If your myoclonic seizures are getting worse, this is the reason.” He waved the box at Sherlock. “...the twats at the hospital clearly weren’t doing their job.” He sighed. “I mean, I’m not your doctor but my advice?” He looked at Sherlock, who nodded at him, “Wean down and stop them. If the Epilim is a good fit, that’s great, but these bastards only serve to make things worse.” He held the two boxes out to Sherlock. “In the meantime, a small dose of diazepam and you should get relief from the jerks until it’s out of your system.” 

“I can’t take diazepam, not unless it’s given at the hospital.” Sherlock said, taking the offered boxes back and tucking them into his drawer. “I don’t even keep it here - just the PR drives. It’s too...tempting.” 

John looked at him with a sorrowful arch in his brows. “Your idea, or Mycroft’s?” 

“Mine.” Sherlock insisted. “I can’t be clean and sober with it there in my face.” 

John smiled, “Well be proud of yourself because you’ve made it to this point. From whenever you quit, you’ve got this far, and that’s a good thing.” 

“I destroyed enough of myself, and the lives of others around me. It was 'give it all up or lose even more'.” Sherlock admitted in a whispered voice. 

John folded his arms over his chest. “Is that why Mycroft’s such a dick to you? You upset him with your drug use?” 

Sherlock sat down on his bed again, retrieving his phone from the mattress to fiddle it between his hands, and shook his head. “Not completely. I didn’t mean him, anyway…” He dismissed, standing up again. 

“Who? Your parents?” John pushed. 

Sherlock shook his head, “No, nobody, forget it.” 

“No, come on, you clearly want to talk about this or you wouldn’t have brought it up.” John pushed, putting his hand out onto Sherlock’s chest as the taller man went to push past him out of the room. “We are...friends, you know? Friends talk to one another. So give it a try.” 

“I said forget it, John.” Sherlock shook his head, shaking his arm out as another quick succession of jerk released. 

“A girlfriend, boyfriend…” John pushed and he watched Sherlock suck in his lower lip. “Boyfriend.” He repeated. “He left because you overdosed or because you liked to get high in general?” 

“He left to join the military,” Sherlock corrected him sharply, “No other reason.” 

John tilted his head, “Yeah, but he stayed away because of your drug use.” He pointed at him. “Mate, we’ve all lost people we care about because we’ve said or done something they didn’t like. It’s how we end relationships, how we meet new people. I’m sure if he knew you were clean now he’d feel differently. Did you ever try getting in touch with him?” 

“John,” Sherlock successfully squeezed himself past the shorter man and out into the hallway, where he proceeded to march toward the kitchen. 

John turned after him, “No, come on, Sherlock, I want to talk about this. You brought it up, plus you’ve seen me bomb through two relationships in the last year. So come on - I want to know. You said you liked to know about people, well I do too.” He lingered in the kitchen by the counter as he watched Sherlock rifle through the bags of shopping, not putting anything away mind you, in search of a fresh jar of coffee. 

“I haven’t heard from him since I was in rehab,” Sherlock turned sharply, giving John what he wanted with an aggressiveness to his tone he was sure John wouldn’t have been expecting. “He hasn’t wanted to hear from me. I’ve tried to contact him through somebody who knows where he is and can get messages to him but he ignores them all.” 

John narrowed his eyes. “Mrs Hudson said she heard you shouting on the phone while I was out, she assumed it was your brother. Is it him who can get messages to this guy?” Sherlock nodded coyly. “Does he work for your brother?” 

Sherlock shook his head, “Not directly.” He found the coffee, and snapped it up. 

“So...what?” 

“Nothing, I said I didn’t want to talk about it, you already got more details. Is that not enough?” Sherlock snapped again. John jerked his head back at the ferocity with his Sherlock yelled at him. 

He held out his hands, waving an invisible white flag. “Okay, fine. Are you at least going to tell me his name? ...God, it’s not Lestrade is it?” 

Sherlock frowned at him deeply and rolled his eyes. “Victor.” He said, wetting his lips. “His name is Victor.” 

John leaned back against the kitchen counter. “Where’d you meet him?” He knew if he dug enough Sherlock would give in. He always did, always. But he was mindful of aggravating him too much. 

“University,” Sherlock supplied, hovering at the sink with the kettle as he filled it to put on to boil. “We shared a dorm room, took Chemistry together.” 

“I bet you did!” John laughed and tried to smudge it out when Sherlock glared at him. He couldn’t keep from smiling, though, despite Sherlock’s obvious annoyance. “Hit it off immediately?” 

“Something like that,” Sherlock said, placing the kettle onto its base and flicking the switch. He took down two mugs from the wall-mounted press and placed the onto the counter beside the kettle. 

“I bet your brother hated him,” John smirked. “Someone taking up all your interests, steering you away from your work, tut-bloody-tut.” 

Sherlock smirked, despite his anger, and turned to lean on the counter, facing John with the table between them. “Was never a fan.” 

“You think that’s why he keeps you from him now?” John asked, pulling down the corners of his mouth. 

“Who knows why Mycroft does anything that he does?” Sherlock diverted. “Besides, if Victor wanted to be in touch he would have, regardless of Mycroft’s rulings. Victor was never the biggest support of Mycroft himself and he wasn’t shy in showing him so. Part of Mycroft blamed Victor when…” He stopped abruptly and turned back to the kettle. 

“When what, Sherlock?” John pressed. He uncrossed his arms and ankles and pushed away from the counter, rounding the table to take the kettle into hand and not give Sherlock the opportunity to lift it, fearing a sudden jerk might cause damage. “When what?” He asked, his voice quiet as they stood side by side. 

“When I overdosed at twenty years old. I had a stroke.” Sherlock said quietly and, slowly, he watched John place the kettle down almost as soon as he’d lifted it. 

John’s eyebrows arched high up on his forehead and his mouth drew open. “You had a neurological event at twenty? Jesus, Sherlock…” 

“...Mycroft blamed Victor for a while. I think he still does.” Sherlock said as he inhaled with a waver. “I had to learn to talk again, slips now sometimes, though…” 

“I’d noticed.” John shook his head, “I just thought you were too posh to get braces or something.” John tried to smirk through his shock. “Jesus, mate...I don’t even know what to say to that.” 

“Say nothing, about any of it, I don’t want to talk about it, about Victor. Forget I mentioned it.” Sherlock said, his body stiffening momentarily before his right shoulder jerked down in three, firm tugs. 

John shook his head, his mind swimming. “Go...um, go sit down. I’ll bring the coffee through.” He inclined his head toward the lounge. He watched Sherlock waver on his feet a moment before following his orders and walking into the lounge. John braced his hands on the counter, shaking his head at the revelations. He’d assumed Sherlock had been jilted by someone, so Victor’s existence wasn’t too much of a shock, but to learn more about what Sherlock had gone through because of his vices made John’s heart sink into his stomach. 

If he hadn’t had reason to be simultaneously in awe of and concerned by this man before, he did now.


End file.
